Writing Their Last Will, by Ananya S Guha

want their
loans to
be ‘waived’
want them to
be ‘written off’
in each case
there is a plea
some are written
off and they take
refuge overseas
writing their last will.

Brokering Peace, by Ananya S Guha

Syria they have used
you as a battle field
for a long time
your body is a soldier ‘s
your skin pocked with infinite
marks of hurt before death
scarred with wounds
of women and children
where is your history
your soulful people
are they in the blood
of those fields?
where are those fiesty
signs, love or music
where are those who have
let this hell loose on your
bosom, where do they sit
or are they swathed in your blood
your coffins?
whose conscience
whose voice speaks in those
sabre rattles, in those booms
of artillery, who now will mediate
or broker peace
among mangled eyes, nose, face, ears?

Lenin’s statue  is dead, by Ananya S Guha

Lenin’s statue
is dead
it no longer lives
in a world where
even statues are
The triumph of death.
Elections don’t end
in winning, there
must be antidotes to
see the skull of a statue
in preparedness of
a funereal choice.
Lenin’s statue is dead
the funeral is over
but the curfew to mock
the dead is still on.
Still on.
Lenin’s statue is proven
dead. Only the blood
does not cut stones.
(After the dismantling of Lenin’s statue in Tripura India on 6.3.017, as a result of  the electoral defeat of the Left Front government there).

God’s Forgiveness, by Ananya S Guha

Nine children died like
cattle bulldozed in Bihar
India, nine children
a drunken’s victims
drunk with death
carrying death
carrying blood in his hands
the faces of children harden
into death
as knives pierce souls
the death in our hands
the stain in our hands remind
that death is watching how many
to kill, children who with laughing
faces do not know that by the looming
seas death masquerades as man,
animal and beast at prey.
Nine families die instant deaths
nine fathers, nine mothers
the magic of numbers go on
the mask of death hoodwinks us
into belief  that the money as
compensation will bring their lives
back to masked faces
death on faces
in this land death stalks the holy
the unholy pray, in errant, visceral  voices
asking god’s forgiveness.

Names by Ananya S Guha

In India it is
names that cloud
skies, open
them into wrath
blood trickles
in faces, nameless
names that pester
names that hector
names that carry
burden of centuries
love, jihad, Aurangzeb
Nehru, Bharat Mata
names that keep vigils
on holy land and cows
names that live in hollow
breath, footsteps, names
that blaspheme
names that murder.
What are in these
Names? Games?
lush of sunshine?
metamorphosis of rocks?
names of temples, names
of Gods, names that plunder
names that like leaves sunder
fall, smoldering into
ashen death.
Forgive, I do not know
all the names
but I will wrench them
from time’s clasped hands
and unearth mortal remains.

Seventy Years Of Freedom by Ananya S Guha

Mother, seventy
years of freedom
have shackled the
house that you made
with the British furniture
I steadfastly tie them
with a nation’s manacles
Even as the yellow house
grew, the nation shrunk
into cavernous hollows
of windswept children
sunken eyes
stained teeth
a nation brought primordial
urge of death
now I swallow all symbols
of  oppression, forget them
to be caught in the cross fire
of a nation’s freedom.
Seventy years is a long time
I passed  only sixty in this nation
whirling into torrid seas
of  seas bludgeoned with
blood, and grime
of people who do not understand
these seventy hears of slow, slow time.

Your New Love by Ananya S Guha

You are falling in love
not with man or woman
you are falling in love
with Hindu, Christian or Muslim
With blood in your hands
or with blood  in the face,
toe, feet of somebody else
You are falling in love
with somebody else,
not  Hindu or Muslim
the blood in hands,
feet, the body
or a man hanged by the tree
Falling in love has become
so changed now, we love
a growl, a bark, a shot in
the air
You are falling in love
now with the land
not the sea,
your bruised hands
your new love.

Two Nations by Ananya S Guha

Now a cold war
has become hot
two countries
one strategy
bordering on
Kashmir trauma
two countries
once one
history never repeats
who says?
history is born out of
ashes of nations fighting
petty destinies.
India and Pakistan
two nation theory
split into atomic sizes
only please don’t throw
the bomb.
Big brothers are waiting.

Woman Harassed on a University Campus by Ananya S Guha

In campus
there is rumpus
motor bike riders
harass a lady
male chauvinists
say: what made ye
roam around in dark
that is not a holy girl’s mark
We in India are made not to roam in dark
don’t you know, of  classes and castes ? Well,
they fly masts
Vice Chancellor poor old blighter
says eve teasing is mightier
simple case
of eve teasing mate
why all  this noise
when this is deemed your fate
in this fight
we men, after all
are right.

Your Only Death by Ananya S Guha

Now, Gauri Lankesh
what was your sin?
being a woman
a journalist ?
In India we mime rape
we love women in closets
then lust
now Gauri my dear
why didn’t anyone rescue you?
because you are ( were) not a cow?
They have got guts these revenge mongers
their guts are hidden in bloated stomachs
are you weeping for them?
Are they laughing their guts, sorry stomachs out?
Now, Gauri Lankesh tell our women not to be afraid
and our men to weep, while protecting the cow
tell women to fight with fistful of tears
Now that they have shot you, seven times I hear
near your house, we will make it a temple
so that these cow herds can come pray, chant
But you were not Muslim
I wonder why they killed you.
Chant. Chant. Chant. Pray
Gauri Lankesh emerge out of your coffin
in the second resurrection, so that these
pitiful cows are herded and rescued
from those dying like you.
Gauri Lankesh, I had never heard of you
today I hear, with Kalburgi, Dabholkar and the rest
My heart is stripped of love- death.
Gauri I love you
though the strip tease they  have done
faulted in your only death.
(On the murder of Gauri Lankesh, the journalist).

Solemn Signature of Death by Ananya S Guha

A journalist reports
we kill, in this country
of hills, mountains and
plains. In this country
barricaded by snow peaks
walls, land which know no
country, only people
We have forfeited songs
of  freedom, slung over
shoulders of enslaved race
we talk peace, not war
but war is in raging footpaths
we wage it against relenting writers
to a photo finish.
In Kashmir even as snow capped mountains
are hidden by rising sun
the blood spots tarnish a nation
now, as refugees come to our embattled
country, we say no to high raised peaks
simmering with discontent.
The journalist was blasted seven times
till her brains outwitted her body.
Solemn signature of death.

Tainted with Love by Ananya S Guha

Whither the dead
ha’ penny thoughts
the tortoise and the hare
run, in this impending fun
Brown soldiers black
black, brown
their shirts are shrivelled
into guns they hold
Terrorists come and go
the common man might
know, who the soldier
who the terrorist
the police arrive to gun
it is mayhem
and the gaping wound
that tells all the sorrow.
At crack of dawn
a son is born
father murdered
mother prepares
three coffins
for father, son and
I say my prayers quietly
what do soldiers want?
where is the brave war
and what are suicide squads?
the rose buds faint in red
tulips open into gaping wound
my praying beads are tainted
with love.

Hush by Ananya S Guha

Killing a sixteen year old
hush, the shadows are falling
you called  him beef eater
hush the mother god is silently
you saw his skull cap
and did him to death
hush, skull caps are silently
the protest in a country
not-in-my- name
hush the country
is conspiring
children are hiding
women are conniving
the ageless country is mourning
death of its ‘beef eaters’
lower castes and those
whose shanty rooms
are never in sun’s eye
nature is re visiting
mad inferno in swirl.

Them and Us by Ananya S Guha

The roads are black
Pilgrims die like cattle
Paying homage in blistering
Terrain is not enough
Even if the gods do  not bless
Terrorists do
In the name of a country
We cannot travel
Kashmir’s gates are too near
Death or the valley of guns
If it is not our soldiers
It is theirs
We are mangled
Them and us
Our bodies are them and us
Our corpses too
Why even our gods are
Them and us.
Why cannot we be them
And them us?
Because the blood is not
Them and us !

Nobody is Martyred by Ananya S Guha

Blast those stones
Blast the rocks
Deafen the bombs
Shock the guns
Blast till eternity
Blast the hell out of me
Create kingdom of death
Kill me not him her
There is no war
Only silence of death thunders
Only hounds stalk
The mayhem is not over
Bits and pieces left over
Knock my skull
Nudge my bones
Blast and when you blast
Yourself just remember
In killer’s hands
Blood stained
Nobody is martyred.

My Land by Ananya S Guha

Wounded is my land
hurts at every hill, valley
mountains, or in sultry plains
Even when a bird soars across
winged skies, it hurts
never know when it will plummet
down to seas or, deep deep gorges
Strange is my land
there are mosques, temples, churches
synagogues even
But it hurts
never know when blood
will splatter across their sacred walls
Historical is my land
when the plains rumbled with  battles
foreigners unsettled came to settle
there were wars and canons
but it hurts
you never knew who would win
who, lose and who the traitor!
Penurious is my land
but it hurts to see them
sleep by pavements after
selling their wares there
Uneducated is my land
little children don’t go to school
they sell, or steal or serve tea
And their parents beat them.
Even sell them in a growing
demand and supply market.
It hurts
to hurt
be hurt in my land
of so many seas
so many rivers
so many givers
so many takers
with the population
drowning in them.
River is my land
land  is  my land
sea  is   my land
ocean is my land
hill is my land
mountain is my land
valley is my my land
cold is my land
heat is my land
dust is my land
filth and hovel is my land
slum is my land
hunger is my land
dark circled eyes is my land
but with it’s every breath
I stagger across its straight
and winding roads
searching for a  name.
Its name.

Eradication of Poverty by Ananya S Guha

Rivers are dried
Fed up of the blood
Which coagulates the shores
And leaves a trail
Spots of blood
People carry to towns
Then the cities
Their hands spotted with blood
Their minds clogged with blood
Their clothes stained with blood
Their money stained with blood
Then they taste blood
Little children cry in hovels
Beggars turn mad
Make them taste this blood
Let it stain their hands
They can open blood banks
Become wealthy
Eradication of poverty.

Land Submerged by Ananya S Guha

In Kashmir
there is no lull
break the hull
free the land
free the shackles
children, men women
politicians, aristocrats,
intellectuals, thinkers
free them,whisper to
them truth and how the
body and the land mingle
don’t talk to them of that
neighbouring country.
they know it how neighbours
can be rotten. but talk to them
the movement of the human
heart. don’t talk to them of
this country. they are tired
to be drawn into battles.
talk to them of beauty,
mountains and cherubic
children with glowing cheeks.
talk to them of spiralling mountains
and watery lakes. Speak simply
speak.heart to heart.
pray even if they are enemies
( as you think)
pain will dwindle
them into seven seas
can you see a land submerged?